


The Maker's Ruin

by Ozma



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ascian, Assimilation, Bloodplay, Guro, Hard vore, Other, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 21:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7238743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozma/pseuds/Ozma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Darkness shall consume Light.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Maker's Ruin

**Author's Note:**

> For request: _Hard Vore with Ascian Prime._
> 
> Please heed the tags; this is a hard kink. If you’re uncomfortable or dislike what you see in the tags, don’t read this fic. A friend requested it and I’m posting this in case others may enjoy it, but I fully expect most will not find enjoyment in this.
> 
> As a warning, I have no idea what I'm doing with vore. Constructive criticism would be appreciated.

Struggle as you may, the void’s inhibiting fetters do not loosen, nor does the darkness expel you. Your presence does little to mend the rift – nay, the contrary, your essence magnifies the tear, granting ease to its leech from Her realm.

The Ascian abomination disappears from your sight, battlefield immediately falling into eerie stillness; the soft, distant hum of ancient technology is the only blemish in otherwise complete tranquility.

In this amplified existence, their teleportation has no warning; you know not that they’re behind you until alien claws stroke the back of your neck with alarming gentleness. A single slim, cold finger runs over your most sensitive flesh, starting from your cheek and down your neck to your shoulders, draping its large form around you in tender embrace – a predator lulling its unwitting prey into the delusion of security.

“You’ve no more need of these.”

Precise touches continue their roam down your arms, grasping at empty hands, your weapon long since fallen away. They discard your armor, slow and assured; the trail of their fingers lingers as aether, mocking your weakness, licking over you like a thick morning’s mist.   Unwelcomely pleasant over your bare abdomen and nipples, they continue their exploration, teasing just between your thighs, making you warm and shamed in disgusted wanting, gifting nothing save amplified vulnerability.

Further attempts at withdrawal fail, your struggles against the Ascian dissolving as soon as they begin; dark energies sap strength from your muscles, melting your will away, binding it to theirs.

“Face your end with what little dignity you’ve remaining.”  Their voice dances with controlled anticipation; whispering from behind, the ragged ends of their robe tease at the bare flesh of you calves and thighs, as if promising an unknown reward for obedience.

“Or do not; plead as you will, your Goddess will answer with no succor.  You have meddled long enough.”

The illusion shatters, pain blotting your remaining senses as a claw tears into your stomach, unnatural strength shearing your abdomen with ease.  As slowly as they teased your flesh, their fingers delicately pry the wound larger and larger, dousing what little of their solid form exists in your lifeblood and aetheric essence – as deeply tainting them as they do you.

Sufficiently saturated, they raise their blood-soaked claw before them – before you – examining their reward in curiosity before lifting the crimson-stained appendage to their invisible mouth – to your mouth - placing a single finger between your lips, so that you share what they do. Fresh, warm blood soaks your tongue as their long finger scrapes repeatedly down your throat, sticky in its dribble down your chin and neck, dripping from their knuckles onto your chest.

The creature releases a deep sound of satisfaction that vibrates over your flesh. “Hydaelyn will know Rejoining – as will you.” Their words are beyond comprehension, little more than a distant echo through your body, overshadowed by the pound of your heart in your ears and the taste of blood.

Sensing your fading rationality, foreign aether settles on your bare, vulnerable flesh like a coat of wax, numbing the overwhelming pulse of your wounds. Where their dark robes were soft and loose to the touch, their aether is oppressive; placid ice, soothing and silent, distant and impersonal, chills your bones, both comforting and stifling, lulling you into peaceful respite despite the agony that wracks your form - yet equally hard and commanding, forcing your body to its will as surely as the Lord of Crags’ goals.

Starting at your extremities, the ice burns, freezing deepening until your flesh is aflame with a raging, heated inferno that devours all in its path. Black flame rends the skin from your bones, licking the remains of your aether from dissolved flesh, absorbing it with invisible tendrils. Each touch immolates from the outside in, tainting your life’s aether and sucking away your flesh to be used for their purposes.

No desperate wails leave your lungs as their distorted mask presses onto you, its touch gnawing away at your nose and lips, the cartilage bending as your skin warps between theirs; their arms hold you tightly as they float just above, assimilating your torso into the boundless aether that makes up their shared form. Unable to resist, you cannot but suffer as your skin dissipates within them, flayed from muscle by countless aetheric tendrils, as easily as any whip.

Even as your body bends and your bones scatter to dust, the most potent of darkness focuses on your crystal-shielded mind; the Echo does not respond to the last vestiges of your desperation – it has never been a gift you fully understood – and your barriers falter before you recognize the Ascian’s intent. Distantly you recognize their shudder atop you, squirming as you do within them while they devour the Blessed crystals of Light and your power becomes theirs, remaining contact with Hydaelyn fading as the remnants of your flesh fall away, consumed for power by the abomination.

Writhing within the abyss between ice and fire, existing as both yet touching neither, triumph surrounds you; the sweet taste of satisfaction, the thrill of total victory, and the endless caress of the void are your lullabies.

As it once was – as it ever should have remained – light and dark are as one.


End file.
